


Stained Glass

by Filigranka



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Community: drabblefix, Drabble Collection, Gen, tiny teeny itsy bitsy pieces
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:24:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of drabbles, vignettes etc., written for many different prompts (but mostly the ones from drabblefix).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The end of history

**Author's Note:**

> I'd feel like spamming, if I created a new fic for every little one hundred words. So, the collection. An organised mess, in other words. Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate.

From: Thatdamnbastard  
I understand you’re in  _this_  mood which makes the answering impossible. My psychologists claim that reading texts is less emotionally exhausting. We need to meet. It’s not about ShinRa, it’s about Edge. Details on your voicemail.

From: Thatdamnbastard  
Don’t try. I own the network. I know you read the text and listened to the voicemail.

P.S. It’s about the orphans too.

To: Thatdamnbastard  
Shut up. Don’t tap my phone.

From: Thatdamnbastard  
The meeting?

To: Thatdamnpersistentbastard  
Not interested.

From: Thatdamnpersistentbastard  
Good boy.

To: Thatdamnarrogantbastard  
?

From: Thatdamnarrogantbastard  
Three answers in one minute? You’re making progress. Tifa must be proud.

 

II

 

To: Thatdamnarrogantbastard  
I’ve found another bug. I understand  you’re a power-hungry ex-dictator, which makes resisting the temptation impossible. We tolerated the bugs in “7th Heaven”. But this one was in our bedroom!

From: Thatdamnarrogantpervert  
I’m not the one going through the recordings.

To: Thatdamnarrogantpervert  
Of course not. Reno probably is, and that bothers me. You would be discreet. End this or I’ll off your employees.

From: Thatdamnarrogantpervert  
That’s what the Turks are for.

To: Thatdamnarrogantpervert  
I was thinking about your tailor.

From: Thatdamnarrogantpervert  
You’ve become a tough negotiator, Cloud. I’m amused. Fine. I’ll tell Reno to... take your privacy into consideration.


	2. To express

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt: scream.

Cloud’s body was all muscles, scars and mako-strengthened bones: sharp, sticking out, almost piercing the pale skin. Bloody mess, in his opinion.

            Tifa and Barret’s scars were the ones of warriors. Signs of past battles, courage, honour. Heroic tales. His body were just a blank paper sheet, story too gruesome or too pathetic to be remembered. The marks of the defeated: someone touched, opened, torn apart, cut, touched, cut, opened, endlessly – and spared out of pity.

            _Rufus_ liked them, for that very reason probably. 'It’s like objet d’art,' he observed once, catching Strife’s palm, stroking the after-IVs’ hollows, 'like scream.'


	3. Dangerous thing, attachment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The city.

_Couldn’t it be that I simply like you_?

There was a promise in Rufus’ question, Cloud heard it despite his best efforts. He knew better, though.

 ' _He_ liked Nibelheim’ was the answer and he saw flicker of _what the hell_ in Shinra’s eyes, followed by realisation. ‘Well, not “liked”, he didn’t know it long enough – he was fond of it. I think – I felt it, once – I think that’s why he destroyed it. It was like his emotions... turned out a mockery, a betrayal.’

He looked Rufus straight into the eyes

‘I’d prefer if you didn’t like me at all.’


	4. Let's write a hagiography

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's oh so quiet out there.

 

Another anniversary of the Sector 7 destruction passed as pompously and calmly as ever. Accident, the official version went; nobody was innocent enough to call anyone else on the lie. Were the trials to happen, it would destroy them all: Rufus, Reeve, AVALANCHE.

Accident. And reactors were blown up by unknown perpetrators. Tifa and Barret were declared victims of a staged trial, of corporate machinations. Rufus publicly apologised.

Yet in that one case all the accusations were true, like the bright lights in labs, the screams of the victims, the flames in Nibelheim or Corel.

Flames which officially never happened.

 

II

 

The anniversary went smoothly because somebody had planned it in advance. Security had been tight, usually empty shops full of food, luxuries and industrial goods a month before the event. Food had been cheaper than normally; invalids, widows and orphans had got a special bonus to their pensions.

Rufus probably did all that to avoid riots, which he had always despised, but only thanks to those measures AVALANCHE members were allowed to mourn undisturbed, without having to care about the city, and for those few quiet days before the official event, they had been – despite themselves, teeth gritted – almost  grateful.

 

III

 

The official, annual show of grief was orchestrated with brilliant, rare mastery and that made Rufus proud, in the deepest corner of his heart, hidden under a solemn look and carefully chosen words.

Reeve was good at that little play, too. So serious and so sad. Such terrifying, unexpected loss, he said, and Rufus agreed wholeheartedly, covering a smile with his palm.

Tifa cried when she was supposed to – the photos would be great, such a beautiful girl, every man would fantasize about comforting her.

Rufus was sure her tears were honest. He wasn’t sure what she mourned: her youth, dreams, home, Aerith, Cloud, other troubles at home – he doubted she knew. But not Sector 7.

Barret acted perfectly. He laid the flowers under the monument, took Marlene’s hand and let her talk about how much she missed her 'aunts' and 'uncles' – and he was genuine in every gesture. The guilt crouched behind his eyes, hissed through his speech, growled in his moves, but he kept it at bay.

Shinra suspected that the next day, during their unofficial meeting (business, politics, as per usual) both Reeve and Barret would get drunk, and Barret would even do it honestly. Reeve knew better than to try such a desperate method of finding meaning or oblivion, but he would do it nonetheless, just for show – his guilt was a work of art, beautiful, necessary, human-crafted; he exhibited it with pride, that fake proof of his humanity.

Barret was solemn and tired, just like Rufus and Reeve, sharing the responsibility, sharing the way of coping, sharing plans and visions for a brand new world; visions such as Tifa and Cloud refused to even contemplate, as if afraid the planning itself would equal not just order, but tyranny. And Rufus never tried to convinced them, knowing that every regime, every tyranny was born from the dream.

Speaking of Cloud, he looked like a terrified, cornered animal. He, of all people, he who could kill the whole crowd in less than a heartbeat. Maybe that was why, but Rufus would bet on more personal reasons. Strife was observing Tifa, her whimpers, tears and discomfort, with the panicked eyes of someone who had no idea how to cope with emotions. Tifa was hurt. He didn’t know what to do, how to soothe her, and she was crying while he was near and he couldn’t do anything... The president saw that highway to self-flagellation, misplaced aggression and guilt with clarity which had ceased to be amusing long before.

Cloud would surely try to escape – that evening or next morning – for a week or two. Let him. He always came back, full of pain, poor little thing, so easy to manipulate, never learning the difference between guilt and responsibility and still preferring the former to being a helpless victim.

 Strife’s tendency to snap was useful, in fact. After his returns, Rufus could easily convince him to do anything, the boy always too tangled in his sins to think straight. But Tifa would sleep better if she knew where Cloud was, so the president told the Turks to bug his motorbike. The day was beautiful and he could do that much.

The crowd was silent and properly moved. The food was being given away on the streets and that, mixed with the show of crying VIPs – who didn’t like looking at the princes of the world with tears in their eyes, admitting defeat, admitting to mistake, admitting to pain? – should buy Edge peace for a while.

Success, then.


	5. Politics of cuisine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: sandwich

“I’ve just finished Caith Sith’s latest model – now, that’s what I call edge-cutting technology! You simply must see it, the upgrades made it into the perfect host...”

“You’re babbling,” sighted Yuffie.

Reeve positively beamed.

“I know, but am I not allowed to have a hobby? You have materia, Vincent has his mad love, Shelke has [the] electronics – she helped me with that little cooling problem, by...”

“I’m so glad,” Yuffie cut ruthlessly into his speech. “What that ground-breaking new Cait Sith can do?”

“The tea, sandwiches, salads, other snacks,” announced Reeve proudly. “Just as I told you: the perfect host!”

 

II

 

“WRO is spying on us!” claimed Elena, rushing into the president’s office. “... Sir.”

 “ _Nihil novi sub sole_. And _nihil novi_ demands my attention, because ...?”, asked Rufus.

“Because I found a proof! The public opinion’ll be ...”

“As bored as I am,” sighted the president. “What kind of proof?”

Cait Sith , pushed into the office, started explaining.

“I’ll be a host of the next economical meeting, sir, so I came to check your culinary preferences – I wasn’t spying, si...”

“It’s the silliest cover-story I’ve ever heard of,” sighted Shinra “but knowing Reeve, I’m somehow inclined to think you tell the truth.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for ffvii drabble community on DW, for the prompt "envy".

It would be so easy—a deliberately careless word, a gaze that failed to be humble enough—and Godo would be free.

He wouldn’t have to live through the humiliation and pain of seeing his country fallen, its children killed, its temples turned into markets, its glory into dust. He would join the dead he envied so much, and maybe his rage would be enough to rouse them from their graves.

But Wutai needed a leader, a symbol. His people would suffer Shinra’s presence with or without him. He couldn’t abandon them.

It would be so easy. It was impossible.


End file.
